


let me shipwreck in your thighs

by hamiltrashed



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Gratuitous Thigh Porn, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Rickyl Writers' Group, Thigh Holsters, thigh fucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-28
Updated: 2016-04-28
Packaged: 2018-06-04 23:40:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6680626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hamiltrashed/pseuds/hamiltrashed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Daryl gets just a little too worked up at the sight of Rick in a thigh holster.</p>
            </blockquote>





	let me shipwreck in your thighs

**Author's Note:**

  * For [skarlatha](https://archiveofourown.org/users/skarlatha/gifts).



> Skarlatha prompted this like, a month ago and I finally just finished it this morning after losing my inspiration to write Rickyl for a few weeks. So, I'm hoping this'll get me back in the saddle and that it's good! Bless my wonderful beta, Michelle_A_Emerlind, as always. <3 
> 
> _"Lie down, lie easy. Let me shipwreck in your thighs."_  
>  \- **Dylan Thomas**

Daryl has never believed in angels. He remembers a time when he was very, very small, and his mama would pull him onto her lap and tell him to be a good boy, because angels were watching over him. He thinks now that there was a mixed metaphor in there, that maybe she was mistaking guardian angels for Santa Claus, and thought that if he was bad, the angels would all leave. But Daryl never thought they were watching anyway, always imagined that if they existed at all, there were better things they had to do. But right now, in this moment… Daryl might just start believing.

It’s early. Early enough for the sun to _just_ be creeping up over the horizon, and it’s already warmer than is strictly necessary, the promise of a scorching day making Daryl feel choked and thirsty. He’s up in the guard tower, a rifle at one side and his crossbow slung over his back, but he’s not watching for walkers so much as he’s watching Rick. Rick, who is down in their glorified garden, wearing no shirt and Daryl would swear that, haloed as he is in the rising sun, he could count every droplet of sweat from here. But that’s not entirely what’s caught his attention today, though that definitely puts a little fire in his belly.

No, the thing that makes Daryl’s mouth even drier than it already is, the thing that makes him pant a little with how hard it is to swallow, is the thigh holster carrying Rick’s gun that is currently decorating his leg as if it has any right to get that close and taunt Daryl about how he never will. And Daryl’s not sure that his heart should be beating so rapidly as the way he can feel it is right now, whether that’s the oppressive heat or the way he’s suddenly far too interested in how Rick’s jeans cling tight enough to his legs to be a second skin, leave too little to the imagination and far too much all at once.

He’s noticed before. He’d have to be blind not to, or stupid, and Daryl’s pretty sure he’s never been either of those things. But now, the holster, which Rick has never worn before, draws his attention to the spread of Rick’s thighs with the way he’s standing; when he turns, it screams out for Daryl’s eyes to trail upward along them and over the soft curve of his ass, into the little valley of his lower back. Suddenly, Daryl has the strongest urge to have his tongue everywhere on Rick. Surely he wouldn’t be as thirsty then.

Daryl presses the heel of his palm along the ever-growing bulge in his pants, as if that will somehow stop what’s happening from happening, as if the pressure will make him feel any better, as if there’s a way to unbreak the promise he’d made to himself before about not giving in to his utterly absurd desires and watching Rick like he’ll ever be able to lay claim to a man like that. There’s no precedent for a dirty redneck and a family man cop, though Daryl would like the record to reflect that Rick no longer looks the small town pretty boy he once did, not with the beard and all that muscle and the hardened look on his face that speaks to just how much he’s seen and done. So maybe there’s a precedent for _this_ , somewhere along the line; maybe sometime, a long time ago, a set of lovers looked the way he imagines he’d look with Rick on top of him. Of course, that’s wishful thinking to the point of idiocy, but what else has he got going for him?

Still, by the time Daryl climbs down from the guard tower half an hour later, his situation hasn’t improved, and he finds himself flinching away when Rick meets him as he’s heading inside the prison and touches him lightly on the shoulder in greeting. If there were anything like a stiff breeze in the air, Daryl’s sure he’s hard enough that it alone could come close to finishing him off. So Rick’s touch, brief though it is, is enough to make his hands shake.

“You okay?” Rick asks him, and there’s concern in his face, because if anything, Daryl leans into his touch like a cat most days. For him to pull away is clearly causing Rick to worry.

But Daryl just nods rapidly like a bobble-head doll and mumbles, “M’fine,” under his breath, eyes sweeping again across the holster strapped to Rick’s thigh. Daryl thinks there’s something fucked up about the lust building in him over a goddamn piece of leather, the way it just does it for him as much as the hair on Rick’s chest or the hint of something Daryl desperately wants to touch just beneath the waistband of jeans riding low on his hips. And if truth be told, he’s not sure if it’s the holster _itself_ (like the damn thing’s ever done anything to deserve to be there), or the fact that it’s made him really notice exactly how badly he wants to be between Rick’s legs.

“You sure?” Rick asks, cutting into his thoughts, and Daryl nods again, pushes past Rick and goes inside before the early morning heat tells him to do something he won’t be able to resist. Rick follows him, catches up with him. “You just seem a little tense,” he continues. “You need to talk?”

“Everything’s good,” Daryl tells him again, more aware than he’s ever been of Rick this close to him, fingers itching to reach out and lay themselves against Rick’s skin.

“Okay,” Rick says, and he reaches up to touch Daryl’s shoulder again. “But if you change your mi --”

And Daryl _snaps_ , spinning around and backing Rick up into the wall, one hand in the middle of his chest. “Said m’fine, Rick, Jesus!” he growls. His breath is caught between being stuck in his throat and coming out in heavy, short bursts. And Daryl tells himself no, but his eyes trace along his own arm, to the splayed hand holding Rick against the wall, all the way up to Rick’s face, which shows surprise and no fear and somehow, a little less worry than before. And suddenly, Daryl is kissing him.

A small voice in the back of his head says to stop, _now_ , while this can still be written off as a moment of madness. _Stop before this passes the five second mark. Stop before he pushes you away and gives you a black eye_. Only he can’t, because one of Rick’s arms is sliding around his waist. Far from pushing him away, he’s kissing Daryl back, deepening it, and then his tongue is on Daryl’s and to stop would likely be life-threatening, if not all out fatal. Rick’s mouth is what Daryl imagines his own personal heaven to be; there are angels there for damn sure, and all of them look like Rick.

Daryl only pulls away when he runs out of his own oxygen and Rick’s too and Rick, gasping, offers him a grin. “You _sure_ you’re okay?” he asks again.

“Wasn’t before,” Daryl tells him. “Okay now. Better if you just let me…” he trails off, left hand moving down along Rick’s right thigh, fingers sliding into the tight space between one strap of the holster and Rick’s dark denim, a shudder rolling along his spine and making his back arch in a way that he’d be embarrassed about if he hadn’t already left his dignity back in the guard tower where he stood hard and horny and watching Rick like a teenager staring at a dirty magazine.

Rick makes a quiet noise in the back of his throat. “Is it the holster?” he asks, and there’s a little laugh on his lips, but he’s not laughing at Daryl, just with surprise.

“Been a lot of things for a long time,” Daryl says. “Just… you wearin’ this goddamn thing happened to hit me at the right moment and…” Pressed against Rick the way he is, he’s sure he doesn’t need to explain what can already be felt.

“Jesus,” Rick whispers, “wish you’d have said something.”

“Sayin’ it now.”

“Anything else you wanna say?” Rick murmurs, breathless.

“Think we should go to your cell.”

Daryl finally steps back, lets Rick away from the wall and follows him toward the cell block, close on his heels. It’s still too early for anyone else to have gotten up, so Daryl thinks that whatever this turns out to be, it’ll have to be quiet, but he doesn’t care as long as he gets to do this. He doesn’t even try not to look at Rick’s ass on the way there, and when they reach whatever vague privacy Rick’s cell has to offer, he drags him close for another kiss, lets his hands wander the way they’ve been desperate to all morning, all month, all year, since they met.

He relishes the feeling of leather underneath his fingertips, the way it clings to Rick’s thigh, the way it moves with his body like it was meant for him even though he’s fairly sure it was pilfered from Maggie. He traces over Rick’s gun, up along his hip, running his fingers along under the waist of Rick’s jeans until he reaches the front and pops the button open. Rick lets out a shuddering sigh, lets his hips rock forward into Daryl, and murmurs, “Shit, I don’t remember ever wanting anything more than I do right now.”

Daryl shakes his head. “Sure that ain’t true but I appreciate it.” He pushes Rick backward toward his bunk until he’s on his back, hands above his head and nails already digging into his pillow in anticipation.

“Oh, it’s true,” Rick tells him, voice trailing off into a murmur as he watches Daryl watching him. “So fucking true…”

Daryl doesn’t answer, just crawls atop him and does what he’s wanted to do since Rick came outside when it was still dark and caught Daryl’s eye the way he’s always tended to. He nudges Rick’s thighs apart, runs his hands along them and hums tunelessly to stop himself from outright moaning when he hasn’t even got the man’s clothes off yet. “Been thinking about this since the second I saw you today. An’ this,” Daryl mutters, slowly sliding sun-warm leather through buckles and pulling the holster free, “just kept grabbin’ my attention. Don’t know what it is. Guess I just never thought about how much I want your thighs wrapped around my head before now.”

“Holy _shit_.” Rick’s voice is barely above a whisper and his eyes are wide, looking at Daryl in a way he’s seen him look before, only now that he knows Rick’s open to this, he knows exactly what that look really means. And he’s about to start tugging Rick’s jeans down and off, but Rick beats him to the punch, wriggling out of them and leaving only threadbare boxers.

Rick’s hard enough to nearly break the button on them, and Daryl doesn’t touch, not yet, even though he wants to so badly that it hurts. No, instead, he helps Rick out of those too, holding back the part of him that wants to tear them from him like some kind of beast, telling himself to gain some control over himself. He’s not sure Rick would mind, but he doesn’t want to take the chance that Rick will see the animal in him just yet, that he will see Daryl losing it like this is his first goddamn rodeo.

He holds back too from touching Rick’s cock just yet, merely admires the length of him, how thick he is, and shivers when he considers just how much he’d like Rick to bend him over and fuck him stupid. But that’ll come later. For now, Daryl has his mind on something else. Rick bites his lip when Daryl starts grazing his fingertips along the warm, bare skin of his thighs, unmarked and pale and begging for his mouth. There’s a little war in him; on one side, it’s like a blank canvas, a first snowfall, and nothing is ever so pure, not anymore. But on the other, his cock actually _throbs_ at the prospect of leaving Rick’s thighs painted with love bites and teeth marks and stubble burn.

Daryl bends low over Rick’s body, starts pressing gentle kisses along the insides of Rick’s thighs, tracing patterns with his tongue and nipping with his teeth at tender skin. A loud moan breaks free of Rick’s throat, and Daryl lifts his head to give him a warning look, a look that says to keep quiet because Christ, if the dead weren’t already up and walking around, Rick would wake ‘em. Rick bites harder at his lip and tugs his pillow out from under his head, pressing it over his mouth to muffle the sounds he makes when Daryl goes back to it, sucking red-purple bruises into Rick’s inner thighs like he’s creating a painting.

He lavishes them with attention, leaves Rick’s back arching up from the bed, one arm holding the pillow over his mouth, the other hand slowly making its way down his own stomach toward his cock, fingers shaking as if he’s not sure whether he wants to touch yet or not. When Daryl finally pulls away, Rick’s legs are trembling, and he pulls the pillow away from his mouth to whisper, “ _Please_.” Daryl doesn’t even know what he’s asking for, takes his cues instead from what he wants himself and the fact that Rick doesn’t seem to be objecting to anything thus far.

And so Daryl gets his own pants open, shoves them down just enough and takes a small moment to stroke himself a couple of times, to just get some much needed relief. And then he runs his hands along the outsides of Rick’s thighs again, gives him a little smirk as he watches from behind his pillow, unsure what’s coming next. Daryl grabs at his legs, lifts them enough to pull Rick forward, further down in his bunk so that his knees are shoved up toward his chest. He digs his fingers into Rick’s thighs, presses himself right up against where the backs of Rick’s thighs meet, thrusts his cock against the seam of them and holds back a shuddering sigh at the feeling.

And then Daryl pushes himself _between_ Rick’s thighs, slow and steady, pressed right up against his balls, groaning at the tightness of it, the warm wetness between them from his own tongue. The first thrust of his hips is paradise, and he tries to keep in a moan just as the pillow falls away from Rick’s mouth and he makes a noise so loud and so utterly fucking sinful that if they weren’t already living in hell, Rick would have just damned them there. One of Rick’s palms slams against the metal side of his bunk, and his fingers curl around the edge, gripping it.

“Shh,” Daryl reminds him, and Rick bites his lip. Fuck, it shouldn’t be this hot looking down over him, watching the swollen head of his own cock fucking through the tight space between Rick’s legs, smearing droplets of precome along his skin that he knows will be chafed and rubbed raw from the friction when this is done. But he’ll kiss them better then, be gentler with sensitive skin than he is now with arousal pulling all his strings.

His hips drive forward again, tight, slick heat easing his way, and Daryl tries not to make all the sounds he wants to make lest _he_ wake the rest of them, lest the perfection of this moment become tarnished by airing it to everyone as if they’re on CNN. But Christ, it feels _good_. Daryl takes his time with it, does his best to control his hips so he doesn’t just start fucking between Rick’s legs with complete abandon, even though part of him wants to let go and just do it. But he also wants to enjoy it, to savour the soft give of Rick’s flesh, to memorise the way this feels, the slight vibrations from the way Rick’s thighs are shaking as he squeezes them together.

Daryl closes his eyes, remembers the way Rick looked this morning, every movement of his body drawing Daryl’s eyes to the holster, to his legs, to every inch of him that was just singing for Daryl’s touch. And when he opens his eyes, Rick’s are open wide, his lips parted on gasp after gasp, and he’s not watching Daryl’s face but focusing instead on Daryl grinding against him, the slow and steady slide of him between his own clenched thighs. It’s so fucking obscene, and Rick’s fascination with it is almost enough to wring an orgasm out of him already, but Daryl holds tight to whatever rope he’s hanging on. _Not yet_ , he tells himself.

“So fucking _hot_ ,” Rick whimpers, and his words sound heavy, almost slurred, thick with lust and want and a certain sense of surprise as if this exceeds whatever expectations he had. Daryl wants to ask what he imagined this would be, both today and before, wants to know about every moment Rick ever entertained a fantasy of the two of them. Because Rick kissing him back like he had is the ultimate indication that this is not new, and Daryl is by no means full of himself, but he’s aching to know Rick’s thoughts about him.

Daryl’s rhythm slips and so do his hips, stuttering to a halt, and he bends low over Rick ‘til he’s got the man damn near folded in half, and starts moving in earnest. His cock slides along Rick’s this way, and Rick is still gripping the edge of his bunk, other hand twisting into the blankets and holding on as if for dear life.

“You’re amazing,” Daryl mutters, and that’s an understatement, but he can’t think of words that might actually come close to what he’s thinking and feeling right now. There are beads of sweat on Rick’s forehead, damp curls hanging limp in his eyes, and he’s never looked more perfect to Daryl than he does in this second where he’s letting Daryl touch him and take from him, giving in to this soft imitation of fucking.

Daryl could do this every day and wants to. His best dreams aren’t better than getting his mouth all over Rick, kissing and licking his way up the insides of his thighs and everywhere else. And he’d give himself over to Rick, too. He can’t fathom something more worth it in this dead fucking world than lying back and letting Rick bring him back to life, letting him take away fear and worry and anything that isn’t him, if only for a little while.

This is what brings Daryl to the edge, the thought of loving Rick more openly. The idea of being his, the idea of no longer having to reign in the deep-seated part of him that feels such an urgent need to have Rick in whatever way he’s willing to be had, to not have to let go again. Between the prospect of this and the tight heat of Rick’s thighs, his orgasm hits him embarrassingly quickly. He tries to hold back, but Rick’s needy sounds, the way he’s still watching Daryl slide between his legs, unable to take his eyes away; it’s all too much. It hits him like a freight train, and he grips hard at Rick’s thighs, fingers digging in, hips bucking like a stutter as he comes all over Rick’s cock, his belly, halfway up his chest until he’s got nothing left to give. 

And all he has to do is reach around, give Rick a few quick strokes until he tenses up and adds to the mess on his own body, pillow back over his mouth to muffle his moans. Daryl resists the urge to lick his fingers clean of Rick, saves the intimacy of that for another day, and merely frees Rick’s legs, pulls away from him and rolls over into the gap between Rick and the wall, still breathing like he just ran a marathon. Rick lets his legs fall open, and Daryl watches as he runs his fingertips over reddened flesh, slow smile spreading across his lips as he touches all the sweetly sore places where Daryl left his mark. 

“Don’t think my thighs have ached this much since the last time I rode,” he mutters. Daryl eyes him for a half second, raises an eyebrow, and Rick chuckles and clarifies, “a horse.”

“Mm,” Daryl answers. “Don’t mind me if I’m jealous of the horse.”

Rick smirks and shakes his head. “Oh, don’t worry. I’ve _never_ ridden a horse as hard as I’m gonna ride your ass later.”

“That a promise?” Daryl asks, and he curls into Rick’s side, brushes a hand along one thigh again as Rick reaches down to the floor and blindly fishes around for something to clean himself up with. 

He comes up with a stray shirt and fixes his eyes back on Daryl. “Best one I’ve ever made.”


End file.
